“What？” said the Cabby. “Not know me？ Me what used to bring you a hot mash of an evening when you was out of sorts？ Me what rubbed you down proper？ Me what never forgot to put your cloth on you if you was standing in the cold？ I wouldn’t ‘ave thought it of you， Strawberry.”
“It does begin to come back，” said the Horse thoughtfully. “Yes. Let me think now， let me think. Yes， you used to tie a horrid black thing behind me and then hit me to make me run， and however far I ran this black thing would always be coming rattle.rattle behind me.”
“We ’ad our living to earn， see，” said the Cabby. “Yours the same as mine. And if there ‘adn’t been no work and no whip there‘d ’ave been no stable， no hay， no mash， and no oats. For you did get a taste of oats when I could afford ‘em， which no one can deny.”
“Oats？” said the Horse， pricking up his ears. “Yes， I remember something about that. Yes， I remember more and more. You were always sitting up somewhere behind， and I was always running in front， pulling you and the black thing. I know I did all the work.”
